


Bedknobs and Broomsticks, or: Sherlock Holmes Discovers Sex

by Vaysh



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, fat admiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the summer of 1894. Sherlock Holmes is back from his travels (aka The Great Hiatus), a changed man. John Watson has changed as well – physically, too. Now, Sherlock can't stop looking. One Friday evening, John just about had enough.</p><p>Inspired by the prompt "bedknobs and broomsticks" and written for the <span></span><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/come_at_once/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/come_at_once/"></a><b>come_at_once</b> 24 hour porn challenge (round 5).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedknobs and Broomsticks, or: Sherlock Holmes Discovers Sex

I grew interested in sex late in life. Before I even considered it worthy my attention beyond mere physical necessity, I'd grown to an age deemed already tinged with the wisdom of the old by younger men, and yet deemed foolhardy by those who actually have acquired the wisdom age can bring. No doubt, older and wiser men – such as the esteemed head lama whom I've had the pleasure of meeting during my travels to the Holy City of Lhasa – would have praised me for my abstinence.

It was shortly after my fortieth birthday, a brisk summer day, and I had been back for two months from my extended travels around the world. My good friend Dr Watson was sleeping in his old room at 221b Baker Street more nights than not, and Mrs Hudson had resumed her role as trusted housekeeper for the both of us. 

Watson had aged in those three years that I was gone. It showed in the grey in his hair; it showed in the additional padding at his sides. A happy marriage shows in a husband's healthy weight; and then the loss of a dearly beloved wife may show, too, in those pounds that remind him of a better time. 

It was those pounds that attracted my attention. And not only my attention but my until then dormant sexual appetites. I pride myself to be a man wholly rational, untouched by emotions; a cerebral being in full control of the baser instincts of the human animal. My disinterest in matters sexual had as much to do with my lack of physical response, as with the fact that I, on principle, refuse to let my self be ruled by things that cannot be grasped and explained with the human intellect.

Thus it took this summer afternoon, and in fact the weeks before, when I developed a habit of throwing stolen glances at Watson's rotund shape, to make me aware of what amounts, in hindsight, to a response more physical, more animalistic, than I ever could imagine. In those weeks, I would make sure to be at 221b when Watson returned back from his practice, usually around 5 o'clock in the afternoon. I would lounge in my armchair and read, dressing gown thrown on to be better able to cover my inevitable erection. Erection, yes. I was hard pressed to remember when last I had had day-time erections, reacting solely to another's presence and physical shape. But I did have them now.

I sat in the quiet comfort of our living room, legs crossed non-chalantly, and watched Watson over the rim of some dusty old book. The way he shook off his coat, revealing his stout, strong figure; the way his waistcoat stretched tight over his big belly. The way his trousers clung to his well-shaped, heavy arse when he bent down to retrieve his slippers from where they had disappeared (as they are wont to do) underneath his customary armchair.

It should have been embarrassing, and it was, once I realised what I did. But for several weeks, with the warmth of spring in the air, and the greens breaking forth all over London, I enjoyed those hours before dinner in a state of (subconscious, I call it now) erotic bliss. I had no word for it, nor did I think I needed to give it any more thought than how to keep my sudden physical interest in my trusted friend a secret – a harmless secret that surely would lead to nothing but sweaty night-time fantasies ending in orgasms of the kind I had not experienced since my College days, with willing, pliant, soft-bellied Victor allowing me to explore my budding sexuality.

Of course, I underestimated Watson's habit of observation. He is a doctor, after all, and while he will unfailingly draw the wrong conclusions, no matter how astute his observations, I know that he does observe with a keener eye than most.

Thus, it should have come as no surprise when on this fateful day in June, Watson did not take his usual seat, did not reach for his usual paper, the _Evening Star_ , and did not greet me with his usual warmth to then engage me in a bit of gossip about his patients. We had just finished our latest case, the adventure of the Mazarin Stone, and had been enjoying sumptuous dinners for the last couple of days to make up for the period when I went with nothing but tobacco to keep my senses sharp for the case at hand. The case had also meant an interruption of my newfound appreciation of my companion's full-bodied physique. As much as those cravings surprised me, they did not – like I have heard from other men my age – turn me into a sex-crazed fool. A case required the best my mental faculties could provide, and this is what I gave to Count Sylvius, the diamond thief.

But now, with the delicious scents of fried onions and heated wine wafting up from Mrs Hudson's kitchen, I let myself feel the hunger again, that of the stomach for sustenance, and that other kind that gripped me since Watson had entered our room. Before joining me at the fire-place, he had changed into more comfortable clothes than the ones he usually wore for work. It was a Friday, and my good Watson, creature of habit that he is, was preparing for the weekend ahead of us. I saw that he had put on different trousers, still black and suitable for dinner but looser around his expanding waist. His silk dressing gown, which had made its way back to 221b Baker Street a couple of weeks ago, had fallen open in front when he looked for the _Star_ , and underneath a soft white shirt was loosely covering his belly. 

My erection _ached_. What with the case, it had been a while since I had provided myself with the kind of solitary relief my body craved. I had never ever been a leaker, had even thought this particularly sexual feat more imagination that actual _scientific_ fact, but now I felt wetness gather at the tip of my hard member.

Watson just stood there in front of me, in his loose clothes that seemed to _beg_ me to push them up and out of the way and get at skin and flesh. The _Evening Star_ swayed and rustled in his hand, and I realised – too late – that I was staring at his protruding gut. It was big, much bigger than it usually seemed when it was covered by a shapely waistcoat and tight-fitting trousers keeping it in place. Now, even with the looser shirt, the lowest three buttons were stretched tight. I had imagined often what it would be like, to lie skin to skin with Watson, to rub my erection against his heavy flesh. Something about the brawny strength I know Watson possessed, and the luxurious swell of his belly made me loose all senses. I could tell Watson was watching me; I even noticed the faint blush that was rising from his throat to his face. But I could not stop staring. 

The book in my lap – I had snatched _The Origin of Tree-Worship_ from the mantle-piece mere moments before Watson had entered the room – was quickly becoming a very obvious cover-up. I tried to get more comfortable in my seat; I tried to casually arrange my dressing gown so to not give anything away. But it was no use. While I had been staring at the good doctor's gut, _he_ in turn had been staring at what even to the non-medical eye must be an obvious predicament.

'Bedknobs and broomsticks,' Watson mumbled softly, the oddest saying, really; something Scottish, I am sure. 

It did not matter. My fertile mind provided images that would have been most welcome for a midnight wank, of thick, broad knobs and smooth hard broomsticks. Another drop of wetness seeped from my cock, and as much as I tried to hold back the accompanying groan, I couldn't. I looked up to Watson, pleading with him for silent forgiveness, and willing him, with all mental powers left to me, to step back, close his dressing gown and sit down to read his paper. I was certain that with a bit of time I would get my raging erection under control, and the two of us could enjoy dinner, and converse politely and engagingly, like the two gentlemen we were.

My face burned, my hands were shaking; I was that close to dropping the heavy tome on my straining member. Watson searched my eyes, and I had to avert my gaze. To the right, I saw the _Evening Star_ float slowly downward and land on the beautiful Oriental rug Mrs Hudson was so proud of.

Doomed I closed my eyes. Watson's warm hands reached for mine, and for a moment I was confused as to his intentions. Then I realised he was asking me to give up _The Origin of Tree-Worship_ and I did. There was a loud thump, and when I opened my eyes in startled surprise, the book was lying on the rug beside the _Star_. 

I felt more than I saw that Watson – my companion, my friend, my Boswell and since late, the unknowing object of my secret, lustful admiration – placed his knees on both sides of my body. Those cosy armchairs were huge and I am a slender man; there was more than enough space to accommodate for Watson's fuller figure. My hands flew up and away without any conscious thought. I couldn't let Watson know that it was his belly and arse that I found most attractive about his body. As it was, his bulging middle was pressing towards my erection, and I wanted nothing more than dig my fingers into his big behind, draw him close and frot against his manly girth until I spilled all over him.

Watson was getting comfortable; he pushed aside my dressing gown and started stroking my shirt-covered chest. His scent wrapped around me like a warm soft blanket: sweat, tobacco, and traces of his citrusy cologne that had not yet all evaporated after a day's work. He was heavy even though I could tell he was not pressing down on me with his full weight. Half-acknowledged fantasies flashed through my mind, of Watson naked in bed with me, lying atop of me and his weight covering me whole, his belly pushing against my groin and moving and moving until we both came with youthful force. Another groan was ripped from my throat, and I clawed the armrests in a deadly grip. God, how I wanted to touch him and explore the fullness of him. 

In the meantime, Watson had opened the buttons of my shirt. He was stroking my throat, my skin, with one hand he was reaching for a nipple. His hands were burning. His mouth found my ear when he pressed his body closer to mine. 

'Don't hold back for my sake, old friend,' he whispered. And he thrust his groin forward, and with it his belly, and I felt, against my aching member, against my trembling thighs, something I had never let myself imagine before: Watson, my dear John Watson, was hard, too. He was big in another way, as well, and just the thought that he was so aroused because of me – a man, a brain, a friend who had never as much as hinted at any sexual interest – made me almost lose my load right there and then. 

I gave up the armrests and dug my fingers into soft heavy flesh. I explored the fullness of that round arse which featured so prominently in my fantasies. Watson moved with me, shoving back into my kneading hands and thrusting forward again, his body flexible despite its weight. His lips were soft against my ear, and he was panting fast. I had never imagined any sounds that he would make, but hearing him now so near, with his body still covered by clothes (and damn every stitch on him!) and yet so close to me, all warm and weight and soft flesh that I felt jiggle and move underneath the loose cloth – it was getting too much way too fast. 

Watson must have felt I was about to spill, for he twirled his tongue in the shell of my ear, a languid, wet touch so wholly unexpectedly arousing that a low guttural scream escaped my lips. He frotted against me, and I slid my hands over the soft expanse of his sides and belly. Desire, like pain, uncurled deep within me. Orgasm is a moment bereft of all control. I had known this before, and I knew it now, first hand, as lust, crystal-sharp and bright as the sun, spiked through me. I spilled and spilled like a schoolboy, in my pants.

For what seemed like minutes Watson and me just held on to each other. He was whispering nonsense words into my ear. His body kept moving lightly in my lap. Wetness was cooling between us; I realised he had come, too, and I felt a vague sadness to not have been lucid enough to witness his moment of pleasure. As it was, I was catching my breath, taking in huge gulps of air, as if I had stopped breathing sometime during the encounter. All the while I was stroking Watson's belly, cupping the heavy weight of it. I was thinking of him naked, of my cock painting pictures of leaking wetness on his stretched skin.

Eventually, he righted himself. He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye.

'Dinner,' he said, cocking his head in a way I have never seen with the good doctor. I felt his stomach grumble underneath my palms.

'Dinner.' This was the moment, I realised, when it was my turn to be brave. 'And then a good book. And bed afterwards, together.'

_fin_


End file.
